A Christmas Disaster Plane Story Spectacular!
by RebelsAdvocate
Summary: Scheduling a last-minute world meeting on the morning of Christmas Eve in New York was, obviously, not a good thing - and neither was the twisted gift game, nor the weather forecast. The nations must work together (more AND less) to land their last-minute flight and get home in time for the holidays. Chaos ensues, includes a little bit of romance. [2017 Christmas]
1. it's beginning to look a lot like

_it's beginning to look a lot like..._

 **HOUR 1 - 07:00 EST - CHRISTMAS EVE**

America was determined to have a bomb-ass Christmas. No matter if he had to wake up at six in the morning for this stupid meeting; no matter if he had to carpool down Fifth Avenue without stopping to admire the Rockefeller Center; no matter if his coffee froze to death on the sidewalk to the venue before he did. He was unstoppable, and nothing could keep him from getting hyped for the holidays. Not even the brackish sludge covering his business shoes, left behind from the freak storm two days ago. _Man_ , was it a season!

"Do you think there'll be snow?" Canada tentatively wondered, narrowly dodging a fire hydrant, his face turned toward the overcast sky.

" _What_?" America hollered over the screeches of the taxis.

"I said _Do you think there'll be snow?_ " Canada sidestepped a kid actually on a skateboard, wearing a Santa hat and eating a string of popcorn. Only New Yorkers had the audacity.

" _WHAT?_ " America took out one earbud. Mariah Carey had been playing.

" _Do. Ya. Think—"_ Canada was then jostled by a bunch of men with large cameras, who were hovering over a lady with a microphone—presumably a news crew of some sort. The woman was coincidentally belting out the weather prediction: horrendous, definitely seeing precipitation in the near future, you should all take cover, and by the way, enjoy the holidays! "Oh, forget it."

America dodged the chaos flawlessly, taking a solemn sip from his chilled coffee. He shivered, pausing to rub steam off his glasses with his gloves. "Well, dang. It really looks like there'll be snow. And I thought it had been the end of 'White Christmas.' Global warming, man. It's _real_. You holdin' up?"

Canada raised his shoulders, burying his mouth in the fuzz around his coat collar. He simply nodded.

"Good. Oh, hey, look. We're here." America didn't wait for the stoplight, double-checking Google Maps on his phone as he confidently crossed the street. He didn't know who had chosen this location, but it hadn't been very parking-friendly. He absently wondered if they were late, humming a few bars of the Christmas song the shop across the street was blaring and swinging his briefcase.

The door to the Midtown meeting building was swung open. Canada sighed when the blast of indoor heat hit them. He stomped the sludge off his shoes while the security personnel checked his identification, then followed America into the elevator.

Michael Bublé serenaded the two countries as they climbed into the sky. America finally looked up from his phone to make direct eye contact with Canada. A slow grin spread across his face. "Hey, Can, wanna hear a Christmas secret?"

Canada resisted the urge to take a step back, even though they were in a tiny moving box. "Um, what?" He laughed lightly.

America stared at him, repressing his smile. "When I hear Michael Bublé...I get…'how you say'..."

The beat dropped.

" _EXCITÉ_!"

Canada's eyes went wide as he tried not to immediately burst into laughter and glance in any particularly incriminating direction. "Damn you," he muttered over a snort, turning away as America guffawed, loud and proud.

The elevator came to a stop at the top floor, and the doors slid open with a _ding._ The two grinning nations stepped out, their strides falling into syncopation down the long hall. America shook out his shoulders, mentally psyching himself up once more for what was bound to go down in the world meeting. The rest of the building had been empty, which could only mean everyone else was already inside the room at the end of the hall. He wasn't sure how many nations his government had invited, but he knew, due to the amount of complaining emails he had received in the days leading up to the event, that at least half of the world was pissed off by it. Heck, he was pissed off by it. The world was easily pissed off.

And so America opened the meeting room door, thinking he was prepared for everything that was about to ensue in the hours to come. He really, _really_ had no idea.

Various familiar faces were gathered around a large rectangular table, all in various volumes of conversation with each other, like a murder of crows. Coats and suitcases of all shapes and sizes were flung over chairs, and a stray coffee cart appeared to have been raided. Someone's laptop computer was connected with the big projector, their presentation announcing "CHRISTMAS EVE MEETING" in a garish, multicolored font that put off just the sort of annoyed vibe that had been expected.

France was the first to see the two enter, due to his proximity to the door. "Ah, joyeux Noël!" he exclaimed, offering kisses of greeting. His smile, however, was tense. "America and Canada have arrived!" he advertised to the room.

Conversations and heads turned their way. "Hey, y'all!" America shouted as Canada gave a wave.

"About time." Germany was looking at his watch and shaking his head disapprovingly. "We all have flights in an hour. This better be good and quick."

"Sorry; you know traffic." America ripped out his other earbud and took off his coat, slinging it over the back of an empty chair. "FYI, the timing totally wasn't _my_ idea. You'll get home soon. Don't 'get your knickers in a knot,' as my ol' pal here would say!" He slapped Britain on the back.

Britain _oof_ ed. "Please."

Germany took a seat. "My _knickers are not knotted_ ," he grumbled to himself. He turned to North Italy, slumped over the table next to him, fast asleep. "Wake up, we're starting."

"I vote we don't even start!" South Italy declared, his chair screeching as he pulled it out to take a seat across from his brother. "This is stupid! We are not having a very _buon Natale_ , no! Do you _know_ how _early_ we had to wake up for this?"

"You should talk," mumbled Belarus from the other end of the room. There were noticeable gray circles around her eyes. "It's all for naught."

" _You_ should talk!" China chimed in, violently whipping pens out of his briefcase. "I would be about to go to bed right as of now!"

America tried to do the math in his head. "So you go to sleep at like, what, seven o'clock? Eight? Old man."

China hissed at him

Finland stood, displaying a nervous smile. "Um, isn't this beside the point? The faster we finish the meeting, the faster we can get to the airport, the faster we can get to bed and wake up for Christmas, right?" His arms shot out, then fell to his sides. "As you can see, this is important to me."

The mood of the room dimmed substantially as everyone simultaneously remembered why the Nordic was decked out in full Santa gear.

"Oh damn," someone muttered.

"Wait!" America shrieked. "We haven't gotten to the game yet!"

Italy blinked and leaned forward, suddenly awake. "Game?"

"No," said Germany.

"I can't believe you're going through with this," Canada whispered under his breath.

America was a little hurt by the lack of faith, but soldiered on ahead. He pulled a snapcracker out of his pocket and pulled it with a grand gesture; the boom was huge in the small room. Several nations winced; the Baltics cowered; confetti drooped sadly to the dingy tabletop. "So!" he began. "You may have noticed! In your invitation, there was some fine print!"

"In fucking Comic Sans," Estonia grumbled.

"Aha! So you did read it!" America winked. "Anyway! Sometimes, workplaces and offices and whatever will do a white elephant gift exchange, which is where you bring a cheap joke gift and pass them around and try to get cool ones and not sucky ones! I don't know why it's called that, it just is. So, um, yeah."

The reactions were less than favorable.

"Germany, I'm confused," mumbled Italy.

"This is so gay," mumbled Romano.

Japan, always patient, raised his hand and waited for everyone to quiet down. "Not that I'm against your traditions, America-san, but I don't think it would fit within the allotted time frame. Plus, I am not sure everyone was aware that gifts were required."

Britain scowled. "Truthfully, and it's mighty rude to ask of us, after we already made time for this blasted meeting." And then, almost as an afterthought, he growled, "As if I'd spend money on the lot of you."

"But, there is a parcel right next to you?" France pointed.

"Well of course!" Britain coughed. "It's homemade, obviously."

France mimed a gag.

"But it would be so much fun!" America tried to remain enthusiastic, despite the barrage of angry words and pens and _au d'oeuvres_. His heart sank to his shoes. "I know you guys are exhausted, but this could be like, that one thing that gets us going! Sparks! Creativity! Come _on!"_ He jumped up and his chair spiralled into the wall. "We have actual Santa Claus with us right now!"

Finland looked uncomfortable under all of the attention, and reluctant to delay the meeting any further. America tried to channel every childish Christmas wish he'd ever had into his puppy eyes, and clasped his hands together. "Please," he breathed. "I'll never be naughty again."

Finland closed his eyes, as if he could not _even_. "I think…" he began, looking away from the crowd, "I think that giving gifts is a good show of peace, and that…and that it is in the true spirit of the holiday."

" _Yes!"_ crowed America, because who could argue with actual Santa Claus?

Several nations protested: they didn't have time to get anything, this was a waste of time, this was stupid. America let it bounce right off of him, because he was rubber and they were glue. "Not to worry!" he cheered. "I'm sure our dear Santa Claus has presents enough for everyone!"

The scathing glare he received from Finland reminded America that he should really stop volunteering people for things. With some shuffling, they decided that the best place to gather the gifts was under the decorative Christmas tree in the middle of the room. It was the saddest tree America had ever seen, a real Charlie Brown tree to be sure: it was balding and scraggly, the lights were going out; there might have been a squirrel in there. Just what _was_ this conference building? Whatever. America thought it was perfect.

"Is that seriously all you brought?" Austria jeered at Switzerland, who stiffly placed a tiny bag next to the growing pile. "You cheap bastard."

Switzerland turned red. " _Excuse_ me? You left the price tag on yours! That's so tacky! You ass!"

"At least I didn't wear a velvet suit! What kind of impracticality—"

"You wear a cravat to sleep, you stuffy wig ball!"

Germany knocked the arguing nations on the head and told them to shut up, please; they slunk back to their seats and waited for the game to continue. The pile under the tree was starting to avalanche, it was so big. Spain placed a tambourine on top of an elaborate cuckoo clock; America thought he saw an IKEA gift card swimming around and made note so he could grab it later.

"This is so much fun," he whispered to Canada. His brother looked a little tired, a little lacking in holiday spunk, in his personal opinion. Maybe it was the weather. He elbowed him a little harder than he meant to and sent him staggering. "Oh, sorry! It's just like old times though, yeah?"

Canada fixed his glasses and managed a smile. "Yeah."

They were distracted by a tiny voice, coming from under the tree. "Um, not to spoil the surprise or anything, but who put a knife under here?"

America screamed when, upon further inspection, he realized that it was Sealand. "Who put a _child_ under here?!"

"Excuse you!" Sealand wailed.

"Ah, sorry," Sweden murmured. "He must've gotten out of the box."

Sealand was lead away kicking and screaming that he _was a nation damn it_ , and America heaved a sigh of relief. The game had almost been ruined.

"The knife is me," Belarus said bluntly.

"Emo bitch," whispered Poland.

America reminded himself that he should really stop counting his chickens before they hatched—Russia always had to go and ruin _everything._

"Ah, I don't have a gift," the man remarked sadly. He looked down at his gloved hands as if something would magically appear in them. They stayed empty. "Does this mean I can't play?"

America tried to feign regret, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears. "Oh no dude, I guess not…that really blows, man."

"But you said Finland could share gifts if—"

"Like I said, that sucks, guess you're out of luck!"

Russia looked thoughtfully down at his hands again. Then he snapped his fingers. America had half a mind to be afraid.

"No worry! Latvia will be my present, da?"

" _What."_

"Please no," Latvia whimpered, but he was too late. Russia smacked a bow on his head and plopped him next to the tree.

"See! He is small and cute! It is perfect!" Russia said.

"I hope there is alcohol under here," Latvia moaned.

Whether or not there was indeed alcohol existing under the ramshackle tree had yet to be determined. The nations switched focus. "Let's hurry this thing along," Japan said to himself as he counted heads. The process was time-consuming and difficult with everyone moving. "America, how do we do this?"

"Okay, so we get little slips of paper..." America quickly explained while ripping those little slips of paper from his notebook, "...and number them for how many people are here and brought presents. Then we get to choose in order." He leaned in, inches from the table, and began furiously scribbling down numbers. "How many?"

Japan provided the number as Italy finally perked into understanding. "Oh, so we all just get presents? Hey! This is fun!"

"No," Germany repeated, glancing at his watch once more before folding his arms.

" _Yes_!" insisted America, collecting all the slips together in a pile. "But once a present is chosen by one dude, the next dude can use _their_ turn to steal it, and then the first dude can steal someone else's, and so on, and so on...wait." He looked around. "Where'd Sealand go? We...we actually need him."

"Dear God, no," begged Britain.

An ambiguous mumble passed through the gathering. Sweden began to stand up, presumably to retrieve the young micronation, when all of a sudden the conference room door slammed open. "HA!" Sealand shouted, hands on his hips. "I knew it! I knew the day would come! You need me, you _all_ know you need me, you—"

"Just your hat, little guy," America said. When Sealand's jaw dropped to the floor, he elaborated. "We need something to hold the papers. So we can...pass it around. In your hat. The hat you're wearing. You—you know?"

Sealand made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like both a gasp and a scream. If America had heard it in an action movie, he would have assumed someone was being strangled. "Fine," Sealand uttered, very quietly. With a dramatic flair, he whisked the blue sailor's cap off his head and held it out to be taken. "But now you owe me."

America patted him on the head. "I'll buy you a drink someday, son, don't worry."

"Can _you_ even drink?"

America whirled around and returned to the table, pretending not to have heard the comment. Canada stepped in to help him put the papers in the hat, and then they each gave it a good shuffling and chose a slip of paper for themselves. The cap slowly made its way down the table. Confused nations reached in and took a number even if they hadn't brought a present. Some nations, even if they had brought a present, deemed to turn up their nose and pass the hat on. In the end, by some ridiculous Yuletide miracle, or maybe just author convenience, the amount of players equated the amount of numbers drawn.

"Okay! So, it is we start with the first number?" Russia questioned.

"No; we start with number one." America scanned the crowd. "Which one of y'all is number one?"

A wave of silence passed through the room as everyone, finally concentrated on the task, turned to inspect each other. From that silence rose Belgium's solitary hand, in it the target slip of paper. "Do I...I now choose?"

"Yeah!" America jumped up and down.

As the brave woman stood, Netherlands, sitting next to his sister, put his hand on her shoulder. "Choose wisely," he advised.

After sharing her exact feelings with him in a choice language, she made her way over to the tree. There sure was an...interesting...accumulation of presents for her to choose from, ranging from a packet of unwrapped, half-eaten Asian candy, to a silk sleeping mask with the words "THE DIVA IS OUT" stitched on, to Latvia, who whimpered in embarrassment. Belgium tried not to look at him, carefully moving aside what looked like the tie Denmark had just been wearing thirty seconds ago, a lime-green pet collar, an album with the title _Angelic Voices: The Best of the Vienna Boys' Choir,_ and that cuckoo clock. She absently wondered if Switzerland had made the clock—maybe he had finally stopped trying to one-up her in the chocolate department (she herself had brought chocolates). Belgium finally selected a decent-looking yellow bag, and when she unwrapped it on the table, was pleasantly surprised with a beauty salon manicure nail kit.

Poland slapped the table. "Aw, shithole!" When everyone's head turned, he lowered his own. "I wanted that."

Hong Kong stood up, flashing the number two on his slip of paper. "My turn."

"Great!" America clapped. "So now you can either just choose a present for yourself from the tree, or steal Belgium's! That's the fun! And then _she_ would have to choose another different present and—"

Hong Kong was already walking directly toward the tree with purpose. He wasted no time in dallying and snatched up the bag of half-eaten candy. He nodded curtly at the group, showed them, made a peace sign, and then proceeded to finish off what he had started.

Before anyone could complain about eating the gifts before the game was over, Estonia, with his number three, was raising his hand. "I, um, I decide to not steal this round." He made his way over to the tree, hands in his pockets attempting casualty to disguise anxiety. "Wow."

" _Please_ ," Latvia hissed, clutching the bow Russia had placed on his forehead.

Estonia stared at him, let a hot second fly by, and then sighed. "Okay."

" _Thank you_."

"Oh, wait, hey, look! A gift card to IKEA!"

Latvia buried his face in his hands, but before Estonia could make a decision, he was interrupted by an abrupt loud screeching noise that alarmed him so much he fell backwards and almost wet his pants. He wasn't the only one in the room to react in such a dramatic way, either. England spewed his tea. Romano instinctively punched Spain in the gut. Norway blinked. Greece stirred. They realized too late that it was only the cuckoo clock going off.

"It was only the cuckoo clock going off," Germany explained to Italy, and by extension everyone else, but mostly for Italy, who had flung himself into his arms and almost toppled them off the chair. Little did they know, it would not be the last time such a thing would happen in the hours to come. "Every hour, it goes off."

Italy calmed down to listen to the dimming chirps of the chipper wooden bird. "...Ah, yes."

Russia had entered into a mad fit of giggles, his scarf bouncing. "It is so funny! Take it, Estonia!"

Suddenly, Hungary rose to her feet. "Estonia, wait!" she commanded, pointing. "If—if that clock goes off every...every _hour_..."

For like—what—the third time that day, the room fell into a disgruntled silence. Something inside America's head, perhaps a particular wistful dream of his, skidded, crashed, and burned up in a spectacular fire. "Oh, no," he whispered.

" _Oh, no_ ," Canada echoed.

"OH, HELL _YEAH_ , BAY-BEE!" The door burst open. In tumbled what was left of the great state of Prussia, wearing glitter, sparkly garland, beer, and a maniacal grin. "I had no idea there was going to be an _after-party_ after the party! Please tell me this is the after-party! It would be a _disgrace_ if someone of such distinguishment—and here I refer to none other than myself, of course—showed up to party at the actual party!"

If America's balloon hadn't already been popped, it was popped now. Torn to shreds. "Um. This _is_ the p-party, man."

Prussia's arms fell to his sides. "Really? What? Why are you all still here? Did you dummkopfs miss the huge-ass blizzard outside? And—what in the name of Fritz is _that_ nasty heap of birdcrap mess?" He flung out an arm in the direction of the room's corner.

Austria, who happened to be sitting in that direction, threw a fragile hand to his fragile heart and almost fainted out of sheer horror. "I look fine!"

"He looks fine!" Hungary repeated, to the key of a provoked bear.

Prussia huffed. He didn't have time for this. He had come in here expecting a party and had gotten dozens of stiffs in suits. "I mean the—the _tree_ thing! Behind you! But...actually, _Österreich_ , now that you mention it—"

"Stop!" Germany's voice boomed above his brother's.

Prussia jumped, spilling some garland.

Germany's tone lowered. "It's okay; I am not mad, just disappointed. But, did you say 'blizzard?'"

It was almost mechanic, how all the nations reacted at once. "This cannot be happening! I don't believe it!" Finland cried, stepping forward as if he was about to dash somewhere, but stopping himself. The Santa hat fell off his head, but Sweden stepped in to catch it.

"The hell?" Turkey exclaimed, slamming an outraged fist on the table, which caused his coffee to spill all over his brand-spanking new suit. " _Ahh_ , the _hell_!"

"The clock must be wrong! Maybe we forgot to set the right time!" Ukraine repeatedly glanced back and forth between the time on her computer and the time displayed by cuckoo clock. The times were the same.

Sealand sobbed, hatless and still hanging by the exit. "We'll all miss our flights! Oh, this is horrible! I'm just a little kid! Christmas is _ruined!_ "

China groaned and covered his ears. "All stupid, stupid cows! What kind of game were we playing—we know this was going to happen!"

Something had to be done, and quick. There was no time to assess the situation any more. America looked around for his chair, but in finding he had sent it crashing into the wall an apparent hour ago, he gave up and stood on the table instead. "Everyone call a cab!"

It worked; some of the frustrated screaming morphed instead into frustrated typing. "They won't make it," Canada reasoned, knowing better. "The airport's half an hour away."

America tried and failed to kick himself. "They have to! Oh, ding darn dang..."

He jumped down from the table. This was not supposed to happen. Grabbing the handle of the coffee cart, America spun it and whisked out a giant black trash bag with a flourish. He wondered again who had scheduled the meeting for such an offensive, problematic time. While his mind ran, America began stuffing the rest of the white elephant gifts into the bag. Canada joined in due to, if not the goodness of his heart, then the fact that he had nothing else to do in the panic but clean. If there really was a bad storm like Prussia had prophesied, then the odds of catching a flight at all could be even lower than the odds of making the flight on time. And it was Christmas!

America stared at the work they had made of the room while the last of the foreign nations rushed out the door behind him. "We have to help them," Canada was saying, even pleading, like he doubted America would want to help. "We have to go with them!"

"Of course we're helping them! They can't leave their presents—their holiday cheer and good will!—behind, before they leave for home!" America stood and slung the bulging bag over his shoulder in a way that did not make him feel like Santa. There was a cuckoo clock poking him in the pelvis, and he could swear he heard the knife ripping something open. At least Latvia had run out with the others. "This is gonna be one hell of a cab chase."

Canada nodded. If his holiday was gonna take a turn for the worse, then he was gonna do his best to spin it around again. He tried to forget the reason they were in this sticky situation in the first place. "Let's go."

America took one last look at the dejected tree. Just for good measure, he threw it into the bag, too, and then they were off.

* * *

 **Surprise, y'all. It's been awhile since the last crackfest, so have this epic Christmas countdown story, featuring the writing of the amazing TheMagicLamp, LOTRPJOHP13133, and me. Shower us with reviews and we shalt continue to deliver all the Hetalia holiday cheer.**

 **Also check for more coming soon on my tumblr: rebels-advocate.**


	2. santa's got to make it to town

_santa's got to make it to town_

 **HOUR 2 - 08:00 EST - CHRISTMAS EVE**

The street outside the meeting building was a soup of loud, distressed nations hailing cabs, making calls, and generally looking lost and confused. Germany shouldered his way out of the mess of countries as politely as he could, dodging Russia's scarf and almost knocking off Romania's hat. Prussia was ahead of him, already making his way down the sidewalk and around the building. Germany grumbled to himself, determined to catch up with him and figure out what the hell his brother thought he was doing.

The snow wasn't quite on the scale of "blizzard" yet, as Prussia had announced. Still, it was thick enough to sting in Germany's eyes and freeze his lungs. He imagined, by the way things were going, it would probably only get worse, which made it all the more important to get to his plane on time. He finally caught up with Prussia and grabbed him by the garland. "What are you doing?!"

Prussia whirled around. "Whoa! I'm getting us to our car, see?" He gestured to a tiny red jalopy squeezed up against a telephone pole, visibly illegally parked on a yellow swath of sidewalk. "See?" he repeated, as if it would have made anything clearer.

Germany shivered both due to anger and body temperature. "You've got to be kidding. Brother—"

Prussia swayed a little on the icy sidewalk as he tossed his empty beer into a nearby recycling bin. "Hey, do we have a choice? C'mon, I missed the party and it's Christmas! What can ya do. Now get in, loser, we're going home."

It was true. Germany didn't really have any other options. He and his briefcase climbed into the passenger seat, swept away a few specks of glitter, and began to pray.

* * *

Canada felt like one of the balls in a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos®️, which was, coincidentally, the gag gift he had thrown into America's sack/trash bag. The snow coming down outside was nothing of the caliber he was used to in his land, but the flakes were big and sticky, and the sky was dark. If he concentrated to drown out the city clamor, he could hear what he swore was thunder. Not good. He felt bad for only having an hour's flight home compared to the rest of panicked nations. If he started driving now, he could reach Montreal or Toronto within half a day; he only stayed where he was on the sidewalk and watched his brother try to hail a cab. (Maybe a better metaphor was that he felt like delicate china about to crack—another of the gifts he had seen under the "tree.")

America did it like a professional, despite the giant weight on his shoulder. But after a while of being ignored by congested drivers, he began to jump up and down, and then even ventured a little into the street. Canada winced as he was subsequently almost run over by none other than a terrified-looking Lithuania behind the wheel.

"Ah!" America yelped, pushing his gloved hands off the hood of the car. "Sorry, dude!" He skidded a little on the dampness of the street, then regained his balance and threw out two thumbs-up.

Canada watched for Lithuania's response. The Baltic appeared as shocked as anyone would have been had an festively overwrought citizen hauling a giant black mystery sack materialized in front of them.

After that occurrence, Canada thought it might be a better idea to just try and call for a cab, and relayed this to America, who finally stepped back onto the sidewalk and nodded with chattering teeth. They began to walk down the street in hopes of clearing the traffic. Canada wasn't having such a good feeling about this Christmas anymore. He began to meditate as the number dialed, wiping giant slowflakes off his glasses.

"This _sucks_ ," America hissed. He was frowning. "God, I feel so bad. Do you think all their flights will be canceled?"

"One second," said Canada. Someone on the other end of the phone was speaking. "She's asking for our address."

America relayed their location without looking up. His giant bag kept hitting his butt all weirdly as he walked, and it got more and more uncomfortable with every step. The worst part was that after awhile, it really began to feel like something was _moving_ inside of it. He didn't want to open the thing up and check. "Do you think—"

"Okay. Okay, thank you." Canada carefully ended the call. "They said—they said it could take a while. Twenty minutes at the most."

America humphed. "This is stupid. We should have just not come to the stupid meeting." He squinted wistfully at the darkening sky, and the hype in his shoulders dropped considerably. "I thought I could mitigate the bad timing with a little fun, that's all."

Canada's thinking paused. "Wait, so you didn't call the meeting?"

"Huh? Me? Hell no! On Christmas Eve, am I crazy? "

That got a smile out of Canada, a wary yet reassured one. "So...who _did?_ "

America kicked at some sidewalk sludge. "Idk." (He literally said the I-D-K out loud.) "I got a bunch of invitations in the mail a few weeks ago. No return address—real shady. Anyway, I was mad, because, like, who schedules a meeting on the morning of Christmas Eve and expects actual _work_ to get done? So, my retaliation was to edit in the gift game stuff. Then I sent the rest of them out. So I guess I technically DID call the meeting?"

"...Oh." Canada was not sure what to do with this information. He ended up appreciating America's enthusiasm to unite the world with fun seasonal entertainment (however frustrating the strategies he used to do so), but felt apprehensive at the fact that no one knew who had actually wanted to gather the nations together, all in one place, on such a momentous day. He guessed they couldn't do anything about that now, could they. "So..."

"So we have to help them. Get to the airport. Make sure their flights will all be on time, or that they can at least _get_ a flight. Deliver the presents." America's eyes glimmered like that anime effect. " _Save Christmas_."

 _This isn't a movie,_ Canada wanted to say, but couldn't, for America was trying to do the good thing and fix the mistake and how could Canada disagree with doing good things and fixing mistakes? It was, as he thought, against his nature. The gnawing red dread clotting up his brain subsided a little. "I'm with you."

All around them, the snow continued to fall.

* * *

Greece woke up covered in wrapping paper, cold and alone in an empty conference room. It looked as though the world had ended- streamers hung desolately from the drop ceiling, fluttering in the faint draft, garland lay trampled on the floor, the tree was…gone?

There had been a tree, right? Yes? Yes. Greece had a foggy memory of peering into the branches, beaming when he found a small gray cat. He had wiggled his fingers and tried to coax it out but it only hissed at him and threw a pinecone. It had been a strange cat.

Pushing his way out from under the wrapping paper, Greece yawned and scratched his stubble. Idly, he peered under the conference table, in case they were planning on jumping out and surprising him, like last time. No one appeared, however. He really was alone.

"I really am alone," Greece said.

He pulled out a chair, but it squeaked so loudly that he decided to just sit on the floor. He tried to think. Clearly, everyone had evacuated with urgency; even the presents were gone. He was a little disappointed, really; he'd been eyeing that pet collar. Or maybe that cuckoo clock.

Ah, the time, that's what he needed.

Greece walked outside to look at the sun, blinking in surprise when he stepped into a snowdrift. It soaked halfway up the leg of his dress pants. Well, walking was out of the question. Trying to ignore the cold, he raised his fingers to the sun to measure its distance from the horizon. About…ten o'clock, probably. He didn't have much time.

* * *

Prussia hadn't been cruising down East 36th for but a block before he slammed on his brakes, almost causing Germany to vault through the windshield. Germany turned, ready to start firing accusations, but Prussia was pointing ahead at something—or _two_ somethings—on the sidewalk a few meters in front of them.

"Check it out!" he jeered. Then he lurched sideways, leaning over Germany to roll down the passenger-side window, with much protest from Germany. "You two losers need a ride or something? HA HA HA!"

Spain flung himself against the side of the car, his face too close for comfort. "Ey, not funny! Romano said it would look unfashionable if we showed up at the airport at the same time!" he sobbed.

Germany wrinkled his nose. "So you and France decided to... _walk?_ "

At that, France turned, gazing peacefully off into the distance. "Men who are meant to be will always find their way. The future is in our hands."

"But really," Spain whispered, "please give us a ride."

"Well, shit, get in." Prussia rolled up the window. A car behind him honked furiously and repetitively. "We're causing traffic, men. And the kid?" he stuck a thumb at Germany, spinning the wheel with one hand. "He's only here because he couldn't catch a ride with an Italian, either."

"That isn't true at all! You _forced_ me to come with you!"

France and Spain had spread themselves across the back seat, which only had one seatbelt, which they were sharing. France pulled out a phone and began texting someone while Spain leaned forward up to the back of Germany's seat, breathing down his neck. "So you know then what it is like!"

"No." Germany folded his arms. "It is just that when Italy and I ride together, I must always be the one driving. Simple."

A sad, quiet, regretful beat passed.

Prussia and France instantaneously burst into laughter. The car swerved and hit three potholes in a row. "No, stop it, _stop it!_ " Germany roared, leaning away from them.

Spain didn't seem to understand or care. He fell back into the seat against a breathless France, scratching his chin (Spain's chin, not France's) and sighing thoughtfully.

"You said it yourself!" Prussia screamed gleefully. The car skidded on a patch of ice, and then Prussia, as well as everyone else, screamed for real. Then they overcame it and continued laughing.

"Let me out of this car," Germany demande in a grumble, curling in on himself.

"No." Prussia retorted. He grit his teeth in preparation to pass someone up ahead.

Germany sat up. "Do you even know where you're going?"

Prussia scoffed. "Who do you think I am?"

"I—"

"Of _course_ I have no idea where I am going! Oh, but look, a tunnel's coming up. Let's hope it is the right one, friends. Get ready for headlights!"

The headlights weren't already _on_ in this snowy fog? Germany could have punched out _his_ headlights.

* * *

Japan just wanted to go home. He was cold, tired, and sick of New York. He hadn't been there long but it was so busy and loud that it felt like he'd been there for ages. His body was also revolting against the time change, giving him a massive headache and a strange craving for cold shrimp.

South Korea, riding next to him in their shared cab, was just as tired. BTS, had just recently released a Christmas song and he hadn't had a chance to listen to it. He mumbled to himself and fiddled with his earbuds nervously. Feeling the need to stir up the thick silence, he spat out the first thing on his mind. "This sucks ass. I just wanted a present!"

Hong Kong, sitting on the farthest side, nodded sagely, looking up from his phone. "Ass is so totally being sucked." He then proceeded to ignore the rest of the conversation.

Japan pursed his lips. A car outside honked, and he jumped a little. Their driver laughed lightly. Japan watched on.

"What's that?" South Korea leaned over him to see out the window. He swiped the fog away. "Ahh! Look! It's _seonsaengnim!_ "

It hurt Japan's neck to turn and look. China was standing on a sidewalk, apparently arguing with Russia, who stood halfway down the stairway entrance to the subway. "I can't believe you broke the train!" China shouted, flapping his arms hysterically.

"The train is not broken," Russia insisted. His scarf was moving, but it was undeterminable whether it fluttered in the wind or of its own accord. "Come with me! We could get there fast!"

"I am scared!" he shouted back, looking more angry than scared. "And I want food! So hell to this!"

Russia looked down, dejected. "Fine. Then I will take the train _myself_. I will find a way."

From below ground, there came a deafening screech. Made by human or train, Japan could not tell, and wasn't sure he wanted to know, either. He quickly shifted his eyes elsewhere and patted away South Korea's waving hands.

" _Seonsaengnim_!" Korea shouted, pushing back at Japan.

"No," Japan quietly urged. "It will be embarassi—"

"Japan?" China saw them. Japan sighed and sank down in his seat. "And, Korea, is that you? What are you children doing?"

They were in standstill traffic at the moment, allowing a continuous conversation, yet he still wished the stoplight would change colors already. "We are riding to the airport," Japan meekly deadpanned.

"Duh," said Hong Kong, finally looking up from his phone.

China folded his arms. "Without your elder? I do think not so! Are you trying to sass me, boy? Let me in!"

South Korea got excited. "Yay! You can ride along with us!"

"We only have room for, like, three," Hong Kong mused, chewing his lip. " _Oof_. Sorry, old man."

"Don't you 'old man' me! Or try any of those stupid perplexing attitude phrases that Britain taught you!" China was opening the door, scooting against Japan with his old man hip, trying to squeeze in. Japan was miffed. The cold air seeped in as well, and he wanted to sob as the warmth escaped.

"Scoot over Hong Kong _-ah_! We have to make room for _seonsaengnim_!" South Korea exclaimed, shoving Hong Kong against the door, and then scooting over against him so he couldn't scoot back over. "Come on, Japan _-hyung_ , scoot over!"

The cab driver had turned around and was looking at them skeptically. "Um...we only allow three…"

Japan accidentally made direct eye contact with him right as he scooted (scat? sket? skot?) over.

With a thump, China's luggage was thrown in, crushing at least two sets of toes. "Let's go, kids." His ponytail came untucked out of his coat and smacked Japan in the face. He slammed the door shut, and in with the wind of the movement flew a miniature blizzard. Everything felt unsafe and itchy.

"I, like, think I'm dying," Hong Kong stated quietly from what seemed like a day's travel eastward.

"At least your favorite band hasn't just dropped five new songs that you haven't gotten to listen to yet even though the songs have been out for two weeks." South Korea muttered, desperately trying to untangle his head phones, which had managed to become one giant knot tangled in the curl in his hair.

"Two weeks?" Hong Kong frowned. "That is sad."

"Right?! I'm desperate, but I want to listen to them somewhere where I can appreciate them, so I'm going to wait to get ho—"

"Okay _okay_ , enough of this," China interrupted. "Can we get going now? JFK Airport, please. And maybe somewhere with hot food along the way."

The driver, a middle-aged man in a fedora whose skin resembled burned bacon, still looked perplexed. "You know, having four people in the backseat is a violation of the safety rules."

All four nations stared blankly.

"But, this ain't no normal cab, _is_ it."

A moment of abrupt silence.

"Are you going to murder us?" finally whispered Korea.

The man laughed (a non-evil type of laugh, don't worry), but really all they could see was his hat bobbing. "Oh, no way, gentlemen!" Suddenly, hidden lights all around the interior of the vehicle began to flash festive colors. Jazzy music cracked out of a speaker. The driver beamed at them and began to talk into a headset previously hidden. "You fellas were just in time to catch the _Loot Lyft!_ Smile; you're live on camera for all the world to see! It's a Christmas special! Welcome to the gameshow!"

Japan could have committed seppuku.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the backseat of a certain rust-colored vehicle, heading south halfway through Queens, an argument was taking place.

"Keep going straight!" France insisted, pointing at the highway in front of them. "I know this road!"

Spain shook his head, staring intently at his phone, as if it held the secrets of the universe. "But Siri says—"

"I don't care what that cow thinks—I'm staying." Prussia gunned it, switching lanes. "Besides, France, you never do anything _straight_." A cacophony of guffaws. Their car fell in line with another.

A very worried Germany happened to glance over at the other car—a white soccer mom van, to be precise—and then immediately wished he hadn't. He whipped his head back forward just as his brother noticed.

"Who is this idiot think he is trying to race me—ah!" Prussia almost slammed on the breaks. "Denmark!" Before anyone could stop him, Prussia rolled down his window and began to shout into the frozen air at a van full of Nordics.

Whatever Denmark shouted back was lost in the wind. Sweden, the driver, only glanced over once to give them what really looked like a death glare. The Nordic car began to pick up speed.

"Oh, no they don't!" Prussia hit the gas again, matching them. France shrieked.

"Don't you dare!" Germany put a hand on Prussia's coat sleeve, but the older brother paid no mind. "We're both going to the same place!"

"I am not losing this!" Prussia yelled.

Germany buried his face in his hands. Hopefully they would just _all_ die so no one would have known he was here. There was an extent to Christmas fun, and this was it—the line where _fun_ became _terror_. They had just crossed it. At least, if they somehow lived, they would get to the airport faster. Germany wondered if his flight had already left.

* * *

Outside of the grungy hotel, Liechtenstein stood on the only piece of dry sidewalk, shivering as Switzerland tried to nab a cab. The cars paid him no mind, ignoring his waving. He threw his hat to the ground in frustration, where it flopped like a sad soppy calzone.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Your dress is all ruined."

It really wasn't, Liechtenstein thought, just a little damp. She told him so. "Don't worry about it, big brother."

Switzerland looked unconvinced. "I don't understand. I know it's Christmas Eve and people want to get home to their families, but you'd think I would be able to catch just one—"

" _TAXI!"_

Liechtenstein yelped in surprise as someone shoved past her, shrieking wildly and pointing at the one remaining cab—

"Better luck next time, Switzy!" Hungary whooped, dragging a frazzled-looking Austria by his coattails. "This cab is ours!"

Switzerland jumped back to his feet, mouth agape. "What?! That's not fair!"

Austria sneered as Hungary rocketed past. "Don't be absurd," he huffed. "It might have escaped your notice, but life isn't fair. I have a Christmas Eve concert to conduct, so you'll have to meekly accept the next available cab."

Switz looked floored, seething silently, so Liechtenstein grabbed his soggy hat and plopped it back on his head. "Switz! Come on! Follow them!"

She tugged him through the snow, and they raced towards the taxi. Hungary and Austria seemed to be arguing with the driver. Too bad. Liechtenstein hip-checked stuffy Austria out of the way.

"JFK, please," she said primly.

"Oh, good," said the driver. He was wearing a Santa hat and a matching beard that he must have been wearing during lunch, because it had bits of falafel in it. "Y'all are going the same way. It's a little tight but I'm sure you can fit."

Austria looked politely revolted while Switzerland looked politely furious, while Hungary shrieked, "I will not share! I won fair and square!"

Ignoring them, Liechtenstein asked, "How much?"

"Ah, well, it depends…" The driver scratched his beard. "Traffic might be pretty bad, but my best guess is about seventy dollars."

Switzerland and Austria stopped arguing long enough to stare aghast at the driver. " _Seventy dollars?_ "

Austria scoffed. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm sure I can find a better price elsewhere."

Switzerland looked down at Liechtenstein, conflicted. "Well, Liechtenstein is very cold."

Liechtenstein was, in fact, very cold, but she thought Austria was a grump and he was always giving Switzerland lots of tension. She hated to give him the satisfaction.

"Only a fool would pay that much for transportation," Austria was saying.

"What are implying?" Switz spat out.

Austria shrugged. "Only that you're not as skilled in saving money."

Watching her brother turn red, Liechtenstein made up her mind. She turned to the cab driver, who was now eating more falafel and looking bored.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but we'll find transportation elsewhere. Thank you."

The man shrugged and closed his window. The yellow car drove away, and the four nations were left on the side of an empty road.

* * *

Greece waited a few minutes outside the conference building for a cab, but the road remained empty. In fact, there wasn't a car in sight. The six-lane intersection stretched out empty before him, blanketed in undisturbed snow. It was very quiet. He mused over the concept of hitchhiking. What he really wanted was a place to sit down and think, but the ground was wet and cold and covered in that weird black gritty asphalt stuff. So he started walking in search of someplace dry.

Eventually, a few blocks west, he found a man next to a cardboard box and a dumpster.

"Excuse me," he said. "Are you using that box?"

The man squinted up at him and rubbed his snotty nose. He looked cold. "The fuck? Are you high?"

Greece considered. "No," he answered finally. "Are you?"

"A little. What's it to you?"

"I just want to sit in that box."

Greece pointed at the object in question, it was a very nice box, about TV-sized. Good for sitting and thinking.

The man snorted. "Like, whatever. But be careful. It's a _magic_ box."

Greece did not see anything magical about the box, but then again, the stranger did not seem particularly lucid.

"Okay," he said. "I just want to know if I can sit in it."

"Whatever you want, man."

The stranger appeared to go back to sleep. After some thought, Greece shrugged out of his sweater and draped it over the man's shoulders.

"Dude! What the fuck?" The stranger recoiled. "Don't strip out here, you'll freeze your balls off!"

"You need it more than me." Then Greece sat down and the box began to shake and vomit sparkles and he was whisked away.

* * *

New York City's JFK International was at that time now being met with its first visitors of the personified nation variety, well, since that morning. Two cars pulled up side-by-side: a rough-and-tumble crimson machine and a hardened family van. Snowflakes covered a light film over the windshields of both, concealing what lie within.

The first thing they saw when they reached the entrance to the airport were the Italy brothers, both sitting together cross-legged on a bench, holding Starbucks espressos. Their luggage was abandoned next to them as they peered intensely at something on Veneziano's phone. (He had discovered one of those "adult coloring book" apps and was becoming molto amused by it. He planned to print out the pretty flower he was "painting" and use it for his "white elephant" gift. America _had_ said "gags" were welcome.)

Germany stomped up to them first, visibly shaken (shaking) from his car ride, whisking falling snow out of his face.

Romano stood strong to meet him. " _Finally_ , someone else is here. Took long enough! Too bad it had to be your old fart tighty ass."

"Oh, please. I am younger than you." He paused. "I think. Maybe." The wind blew. "It doesn't matter! How are you here already so fast? And how did you have time to get _coffee_?"

"Well, we drove ourselves, of course!" Italy reluctantly saved his work, taking a sip from the aforementioned coffee.

"Dang," Denmark whistled, crossing his arms. Iceland took both an earbud out and a step back. Sealand whispered, " _Gay_."

"We wanted to wait for you!" Italy continued. "Also the airport is big and there are people running around and shouting all crazy in there...but mostly we wanted to wait for you!"

Germany's only emotion was sigh.

France flicked a dismissive hand through the frosty air. "This romantic development is very interesting, see, but can we go inside, please? My _coiffure_ is absolutely ruined."

"I agree," said Russia. "I am just freezing to the death!"

They all jumped. Norway blinked.

"H-How did you get here?" Finland stuttered, a glove keeping his jolly stocking cap in place.

Russia did not give an answer. He pushed past them all to enter the building—Terminal 1, to be precise. Ahhh, yes…it was much warmer inside. The snowstorm in the streets reminded Russia of General Winter, and wondered vaguely if the great being's wrath would soon be upon them, from all the way across the ocean. The city seemed to be holding its breath as every gust of wind blew harder and the horizon slowly became the color of Russia's eyes. Something wicked this way was coming.

Just as Italy had reported, there was a certain commotion inside the airport. Urgent numbers and letters flashed across large screens, and the giant American flag hanging from the ceiling swayed. People of assorted shapes, sizes, and dress stormed about, shouting into cell phones in a plethora of languages and tones. Prussia was almost clotheslined by a sobbing teen girl. The drone of tumbling suitcase wheels surrounded them.

"That is strange..." Sweden murmured, taking in the unusual crowds of people hovered around the check-in counters. Figures pushed and shouted, and the workers were either shouting back or looking terrified. Now the scrolling words on the screens made a little more sense.

Romano folded his arms, visibly upset. "I knew this would happen. I fucking _knew_ it, all along."

It took a moment for his words to kick in, but then Spain gasped. " _No._ You don't mean..."

Romano raised one eyebrow, then immediately turned to down the rest of his coffee all in one go.

"Let us find out!" Russia declared. No one followed him as he began to trail after a passing cloud of security officials, calling out questions. Italy covered his eyes. Denmark looked away, hands in his pockets. France swooned. And Finland's black Santa gloves clenched into tense, tight fists.

Compared to someone like America, Russia wasn't as into the whole commercial Christmas thing, but missing his flight would still be a hindrance to his holiday plans and sleep cycle. (Gotta keep up with those circadian rhythms.) He had had much fun being included in the gift game, but knew others would be unhappy if they missed their flights as well. He shadowed the security all the way to security, wondering what would be a good distraction, a good gloss-over for the bad news he would be destined to deliver.

"Excuse me, hello," said he. The officers whipped around, startled, as if they hadn't noticed him following them for miles.

"Can we help you, sir?" one of them finally said after much calculated glancing between their coworkers. All of them shuffled together, trying to do their squinting and askance looking thing as discreet as they obviously could. The flow of people created an island around them.

Russia nodded and took a step forward. "I have question—"

A blare interrupted him, with colorful blinking lights. At first he thought the flashing, screaming box that had encased him was a funzy display for Christmas, and began to laugh with glee. Then he realized he had accidentally walked into a metal detector.

"What's in your coat?" the officer asked, tilting their head and pointing. Russia blushed. "Take it out," the officer demanded, crossing their arms. A few more guards and police dogs appeared out of nowhere.

Russia, embarrassed, obliged. "It is only my pipe." He showed them his giant metal pipe.

Security glanced between itself. "Uh...so did you mean to, uh, bring that on your, uh, your _plane?_ " inquired one brave soul.

"Yes." Russia was now getting impatient. "And that is what I want to ask—"

The officer turned to the others. At a whisper, "Is that...allowed?"

The others shrugged. "I mean, it looks like it maybe _could_ be a weapon to me," said one.

"Doesn't matter, all the flights have been cancelled and rerouted anyways due to weather conditions," offered another. "You should have known this, José."

"Oh, it's _definitely_ a weapon," a third chimed in.

Russia gasped, involuntarily stomping his boots. "So the planes _are_ cancelled!"

José put his hands on his hips as a security dog began to growl. "That's right, mister. But don't you worry about that right now. Now, it's time for you to come with us."

Russia felt saddened by this turn of events. Why did things have to be so difficult.

* * *

 **Long chapter, sorry for the wait! We estimate this thing won't be done before Christmas, but that's okay, because it'll still be a blast! My other stories will update slower in the meantime.**


	3. the weather outside is frightful

_the weather outside is frightful_

 **HOUR 3 - 09:00 EST - CHRISTMAS EVE**

"Next question!" The _Loot Lyft_ driver spun the wheel, and the vehicle cruised into line with the others exiting the tunnel. Japan had been in the car for an eternity now due to the traffic, and was beginning to feel sick. South Korea kept elbow-poking him. China's stomach was rumbling. Hong Kong had used up one of their shout-outs by broadcasting the question onto his social media. (Iceland, Taiwan, and Seychelles had all answered and subsequently got the Christmas-themed question wrong, anyway.) They had earned a total of two hundred and fifty dollars, lost their yellow-light challenge, and had only one strike to go before the host kicked them out onto the cold, crowded, snowy street. That was how it worked. In this way, they depended on the taxi. They could not afford to get another question wrong, or they would never get to the airport. It was the cruelest game.

The driver began to read off their next question in that scratchy yet melodic drone of his: " _You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Blitzen, Connor and_ 'blank,' _and Donner and Blitzen. But do you recall the missing reindeer—and I don't mean Rudolph, mind you—named after the Roman god of love?_ You have thirty seconds."

"Oh crap!" Korea closed his eyes, mumbling the song over and over to himself. "I forget, I forget, Japan- _hyung_!"

Japan wracked his brain, but the song would not come to him. "Forgive me if I am wrong, but isn't the Roman god of love Venus?"

"He said _god,_ " corrected Hong Kong. "Venus is, like, female. _Goddess_. English."

China kept slapping his knees. "I know this, _I know this, aru!_ America plays this song all the time! _Arguheuhr!_ I want this money, we can't lose this money! I don't even celebrate Christmas!"

The driver up front smiled to himself. What a load of idiots. Obviously ignorant foreigners. They wouldn't last another day in the city.

Sickness creeped into Japan's stomach as the car's decorative lights flashed above him. America did play the song quite often, but he didn't have it memorized, either. "I…I do not know. I truly don't know."

Hong Kong buried his head in his hands while South Korea cussed up a storm larger than the one outside.

The driver tipped their designer fedora. "Ten seconds remaining. Would you like me to repeat the question? Or, you could use a street shout-out!"

"What?" China leaned forward. "What's that? Let's do that."

The driver's white-gloved hands moved over the wheel. "A street shout-out, yes. I'll pull over, and you can ask anyone you see on the sidewalk for help on the question. But you better choose wisely, because if they get it wrong, you're out!" The camera zoomed in intensely.

They all sweated as the fanfare played. It was this, or say goodbye to getting home on time. Really, they wouldn't have made it home in time for Christmas anyway, being so distanced in the first place, but still... _but still_.

The _Loot Lyft_ swerved up and came to a stop by the side of the road, jumping through three lanes of near-standstill traffic to do so. Cars all around them honked, like the sounding of horns before the reckoning. China, now closest to the side of the road, rolled down the window. A blast of winter breath hit Japan directly in the face, but after he cleared the snow out of his eyes and neck, he caught a glimpse of the one person who just might save their lives.

Coatless, huddled against the side of a building next to a homeless person and a cardboard box, sat none other than Greece.

Japan shoved China back and leaned almost the entire upper half of his body out the window to shout, "Greece _-san!_ Help us!"

The man barely looked up. Next to him, the homeless guy was trying to start a trashcan fire. "Who…"

"We're in the _Loot Lyft_!" South Korea hollered, practically laying on top of Japan in an attempt to be heard. "We need help on a question!"

Greece slowly ideled over. "What is the question?"

"Christmas!" explained Japan, maneuvering around the pile of coats and bodies obstructing him as respectfully as possible. "We have to name a—a reindeer from that song! Do you recall? Not Rudolph! The driver says, it is named after the god of love."

"And not the _goddess_ of love," Hong Kong chimed in for good measure.

Greece looked off into the cloudy distance. "Japan, my best friend…" He seemed to be living on another plane of existence at the moment. He wore only a scruffy green sweater, but stood statuesque and un-shivering against the blizzard. A block away, a tiny cat emerged from behind a dumpster, sensing him. "This is so... _metaphorical_ …"

Japan found his cheeks were rosy. Maybe from the cold. "Please, do you know?"

"Yes." Greece whipped back to stare him directly in the eyes. "The Greek god of love is Eros."

" _Eros!_ " shouted China and Hong Kong simultaneously.

"Eros!" echoed Korea. "I just remembered! It is Eros! Yeah!"

"Eros is the answer!" Japan relayed to the driver. Relief flooded back into him. The holidays were saved. "Greece, I give you all my gratitude."

"Ah…" The driver of the _Loot Lyft_ laughed softly and jazzily. "I'm so sorry, contestants! On any other day, I would say y'all were technically correct, but not today, ho ho _no!_ The correct answer is _Cupid_."

Angry snow thunder resounding across the island was the only noise.

Then, Japan was so overcome with humiliation he smacked himself. " _Roman_ god. _Roman_ god."

"Ah, damn," stated Greece simply. "Cursed Romans."

The _Loot Lyft_ theme began again as the driver's chocolatey vocals erupted into high-pitched cackling. " _He he he!_ That's three strikes, my overexcitable and probably gay Asian companions! And you know what that means, don't you? _YOU'RE OUT!"_

* * *

Miles away, South Italy pricked as if someone had touched him in a pressure point. He turned on his younger brother, outraged. "Veneziano! Did you feel that? Someone just _cursed_ us!"

" _We're already cursed!_ " Veneziano wailed, flinging out his arm and somehow accidentally hitting Germany twice in one fell swoop. He had been despairing.

Russia had strangely never come back from his investigation into what was truly going on at JFK International Airport, but the symbolism was clear. Now, the nations who had arrived sat together at a pseudo-gourmet food lounge stewing over the consequences and desperately trying to make calls without a signal. The airport WiFi was crap. What also added to the fact was that, a few minutes ago outside, Armageddon had begun.

Finland, as he stared with lifeless eyes into an organic salad that would never stare back, could feel it. With every angry snowflake that touched ground, he felt more and more like them...like _it_ —like an angry snowflake. Christmas had already begun in certain parts of the world, and he had missed it. Sure, he wasn't the only force behind the holiday phenomenon that was "Santa," and always had backup ready to go in case an emergency happened. Oh, yes, he was _no_ amateur at this. All of it was classified to the other nations, however—a state secret. What would become of the world if everyone knew how exactly presents were distributed to children everywhere on Christmas? Still, Finland felt miserable and wished he could be the one out there driving the sleigh and spreading good fortune.

Overcome with anguish, he reached across from him and held Sweden's hand through the gloves they had kept on due to the severe heat radiating from their insulated coffee cups. "Tell me everything's not doomed. _Tell me._ "

Sweden gazed at him. To passerby, it may have looked chilling, but to Finland, it looked warm. "Everythin's not doomed." (Little did the happy couple know, but everything was, most certainly, doomed.)

Finland clutched his overflowing heart. "Oh, _thank_ you!"

A few tables away, Denmark pretended to choke on a Danish. "Would you _look_ at them. By Odin's beard _,_ get a room."

Norway casually turned the page of the celebrity gossip tabloid he was reading. "You're one to talk. Stop trying to deepthroat the Danish. There are children around."

Denmark's eyes bulged. He then began actually choking on the Danish.

"Yeah," complained Sealand. "I'm the children around."

Iceland took out his other earbud, looked vaguely disgusted, and then put both earbuds back in. This family— _he swore._

* * *

A ragtag group of Germanics was walking down the side of the road, dodging patches of ice and spray from the occasional car. A few taxis idled, in case they wanted a ride, but Liechtenstein bitterly waved them away. No way would she make Big Brother look bad.

Hungary walked in silence, giving Austria a piggy back ride. Liechtenstein hoped she was okay. Switz and Austria didn't always get along, but Liechtenstein was very fond of Miss Hungary. She was pretty and composed and—

" _BUS!"_ Hungary screamed, and dropped Austria in the snow.

"Please stop doing that," Switzerland said through gritted teeth, but Hungary was already running. A huge tour bus rumbled at a stoplight, like some sleepy mammoth with a cold.

"I'm not riding in that…abomination!" Austria protested from his place on the ground.

"No buts!" Hungary screeched at him, and kicked some snow on him for good measure. Liechtenstein felt bad but not that bad. This was all his fault, anyway. She kicked some snow at him too.

At the end of his surprisingly long rope, Switzerland bit out a curse and grabbed Austria by the ankles. "I can walk!" squawked the latter, like a ruffled bird.

"Not fast enough," Switzerland answered.

The countries assembled outside of the sliding door and waited for it to open. They shivered as the wind bit at their faces; huge, gray clouds rolled across the sky. Hungary hauled Austria to his feet. Switzerland prayed. Liechtenstein fiddled with the bow in her hair. The doors hissed open. Warm, musty air wafted into the cold and everyone coughed.

"Hey, hey, how you doin' today?" said the driver, a young man with an elf hat and aviator sunglasses. He made a grand, sarcastic gesture. "Welcome to the best tour bus in Midtown! You lucky people are the only ones crazy enough to hail me today, and it's probably not even worth it, but I need gas money so I will condescend to give you a lift."

Austria mumbled something about self-important bastards while Switzerland mumbled something about hypocrites. Hungary stomped on them both.

"That's very generous of you!" she said brightly. "We actually are looking for the JFK airport."

The man whistled, already shaking his head. "Sorry lady, no can do! That's not in my route. If you'd like I can take you on a top-class tour of this beautiful city, we can even stop and get some street food if you're feeling it, my parents actually run a Cuban restaurant—"

"No, thank you," Hungary said. She smiled, but it looked a little forced. "Are you sure you can't make an exception just this once? It's Christmas, and we need to get home."

The driver looked conflicted. He drummed an uneven beat on his steering wheel. "I would really really like to help y'all out, but I don't think I can… There's too much traffic, and there's always the chance that flights are cancelled anyway. I'm real sorry."

Hungary looked ready to fight—in fact, she tore off her mittens and threw them to the ground—but Switzerland stepped in front of her.

"Is there any way," he said, "we could change your mind?"

Everyone stared, aghast, as Switzerland conjured a roll of bills. Never breaking eye contact, he slid a single franc across the dashboard.

The driver took the bill, held it up to the light. "Wow," he said. "This is….a dollar. You literally just gave me a dollar."

Switzerland scowled. He reluctantly slid another bill across the dashboard.

"Two whole dollars."

Increasingly exasperated, Switzerland exclaimed, "Is that not enough?!"

Austria shoved him aside, then straightened his collar. "You goon, have you never bargained before? You can't be stingy when you're a beggar."

The driver looked more interested as Austria pulled out his wallet, and proceeded to hand him a small bill.

"Okay, I don't know much about European money, but I'm pretty sure this is like, three bucks, my dude."

Austria looked thoughtful. "...Please?"

The driver rolled his eyes. "Look, I don't know who you people are, but it's Christmas, and I'm very tired, and I want to go home to my judgemental _abuelita_ and her dog. I wish you the best, but if you don't get off my bus, I'm calling the cops."

Austria looked ready to argue, but Hungary pushed him aside. "This is enough," she said, looking fearsome and uncompromising in her fur coat and heels. "You are our last chance at getting out of this country. You will take us to the airport, or we will throw you in the…the…what's the word I'm looking for? The dirty place?"

"A nightclub?"

"What? Sweetie, no! Anyway, we will throw you off of this bus, and believe me, sir, when I say we are untouchable."

Liechtenstein felt a grudging respect; the driver quailed under Hungary's attention, but rallied and set his face determinedly. "Lady, this is New York, I don't think you realize—"

Hungary grabbed the man and threw him from the bus.

* * *

Scores of yellow taxis were arriving outside the entrance to Terminal 1. Stepping from a particular one were the North American brothers, finally here to save the day!

"Got the bag?" called Canada over his shoulder, surveying the premises. It was about fifty meters to the doors through the howling blizzard wasteland. If they went fast and kept on a direct path, they just might be able to make it.

"Affirmative! Let's move out!" America shouted. In seconds they had catapulted from the cab. "Stay close!"

"Roger!" Their shoes touched the ground, and a frigid gust of wind almost knocked them off their feet. It was low visibility, but at least their glasses helped against the barrage of frozen raindrops. They hunched their backs against the storm, America protectively cradling the sack to his chest, US football-style. The cuckoo clock had gone off a few minutes ago, startling their taxi driver so much she had almost run them off a bridge. Another hour had passed. They knew there could now be no chance the countries weren't stranded without a flight, but pushed ahead anyway with the holiday spirit in their hearts lighting the way.

They reached the door and stumbled inside. It had almost been a close call. Canada had landed a few feet away, but they were both unharmed. The countries leaned into the blast of airport heat, enjoying it for a few fleeting seconds before they had to get back to business.

"Right." America flipped the sack back over his back. "Could you get my phone out of my coat? We need to find out where they are."

"Um, I'll use my own," Canada decided. "Who should we call?"

"Uh…" The two began walking through the terminal. It appeared some great war had taken place, and this was the aftermath: quiet lines, somber faces, flushed formal workers dashing about. America was surprised at how empty it looked. He glanced up at the information screens and was surprised no longer.

Okay, okay. America mumbled a curse to himself. They could fix this. There had to be at least _one_ plane, right? His head spun with the complications. In his distraction, he accidentally bumped into a passing gang of security officers who were leading away a tall, bescarfed man holding a metal pipe.

" _Ope_ , sorry," said the officer as they crossed by.

"My bad," America responded. "Merry X-ma— _wait!_ "

At first, he had been thrown off by the accent, causing him to change his _own_ accent, which was normally how it worked, but then he had noticed that the man the police were leading away was none other than _Russia_. And his pipe, of course. "Dude, what are you _doing_?"

All parties gawked at each other with confusion. "America!" Russia sputtered out. "What are _you_ doing?" He gasped. "Did you hear? All the planes are cancelled!"

"This man has violated a security code." explained José uneasily. "You know him?"

Canada, solemn, closed his eyes and shook his head. (He tried to blend in with the background, which fortunately worked pretty well.)

Aw, crud. America was gonna hafta play this game now, too. He coughed. _No, sir, I've never seen that dude before in my life._ "Um...yes, actually; he's with me." Admittedly, he had debated just leaving Russia to the authorities, but decided that if Russia was going to be a tricky case, why not just clean up the mess and get the guy to his own country as fast as possible? Also, America felt awkward inside at the thought of leaving him, for just a few weeks ago they had met up to watch the new _Star Wars_ , and... _yeah_... "And, yeah, I heard."

"What will we do?" Russia questioned, peering so intensely at America he had to look away.

America tried to think fast. He focused on the security guard. "We, uh, just need to get the pipe cleared." He thought about showing them the badge he carried around for situations like these. "It's supposed to go with...with...with _this_." America bounced the bag on his shoulder. A squeaking noise came from inside. He ignored it, plastering on a big, convincing, friendly smile.

"Yeah, what _is_ in that thing, anyway?" pointed one of the security guards. "Looks suspicious to me."

"Huh. Well. It ain't."

Canada checked the time on his phone and shuffled nervously. They should have found the others by now and started working on their backup flight plan. He wondered if he was providing the most help in his current location.

"America?" Russia questioned. "We fight them all now?"

He considered. "No. And _this_ , this is just my carry-on, folks. Now, come on. What's the big idea? It's Christmas season. Hanukkah. Kwanzaa. Whatever you want. This is a time for peace, and...and thanksgiving—not silly disputes over, over, over appliances, and...pipes. Because that's all it is. And we have it checked. We'll get it checked. It'll be fine."

The officers were skeptical. "Alright, listen, kid—"

"I want to fight them," Russia decided. He hadn't liked the way they were talking about him in the first place. Swiftly, he broke his handcuffs in half. The ends of his scarf floated up and slapped two of the officers in the face.

"FINE!" America shrieked. He dropped the trash bag (Canada stepped in to catch it) and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. "Look, _here's_ my clearance!" He shoved the billfold in José's face.

José stared at it for six whole seconds. He sniffed. Crossed his arms. Met America's starry eyes. "For the record, _sir_ , I don't celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, _or_ Kwanzaa."

"Then season's greetings to you!" America picked up the sack, accidentally picked up Canada, and set him back down. "C'mon, guys. Let's bust this popsicle stand."

"Yay!" cheered Russia, wrenching the pipe out of the hands of one of the security personnel with malice in his grin. "It is truly the most wonderful time!"

* * *

"Lock the doors, Liechtenstein!" Hungary ordered, looking in all ways like a pirate captain aboard her stolen ship (the bus), hands on her hips and an adventurous glint in her eyes. Liechtenstein rushed to obey. She scurried over to the front of the bus, overwhelmed by the amount of greasy dials and levers. She had never driven (or stolen) a bus before, especially not a bus this big, so she wasn't sure which button to press.

"The green lever!" Austria said, helpfully. Liechtenstein hurriedly yanked on it, flinching when she heard crunching metal. She staggered as the bus began to move.

"We're rolling!" Austria wailed, unhelpfully. "What did you _do?"_

"She did what you said!" Switzerland looked ready to hit him. "Man up, you lousy louse!"

Only Hungary was undeterred. She swung herself into the driver's seat and grabbed the wheel, adjusting the mirrors. "Very good, Liechtenstein! Now if it's not too much trouble, could you please make sure that gentlemen doesn't catch up? He is still running after us."

Liechtenstein leaned out the door and sure enough, the jilted driver was stumbling after them and reaching for the open doorway. He held a phone in his right hand and an offensive gesture in his left.

"I'm calling the cops, thieves!" he panted, trying and failing to keep his balance on the icy road. "I paid for that bus myself! What the _hell? It's Christmas!"_

"Sorry!" Liechtenstein said, actually meaning it as she kicked out at his hands. The man finally collapsed in the snow, defeated.

"Police? Yes? Some crazy foreign woman and her pretentious friends just hijacked my bus. They had a child with them, too. What? No, no! The kid wasn't a hostage, she _helped_ them—!"

That was the last Liechtenstein heard before the bus was tearing away, careening through stoplights. It took a turn too fast and teetered onto its left wheels. Austria screamed.

"Do you even know what you're doing?" he cried, clinging to the poles along the center aisle. "Hungary!"

"Of course not!" she said, beaming. "This is so much fun!"

Liechtenstein reeled, but Switzerland was there to catch her. He frowned, stiff and reactionary, like he was in a warzone. He braced himself against a seat as the bus screamed through an intersection, miraculously avoiding a small parade float. A few balloons snagged on the roof of the bus and smacked against the windows.

"Your hair is messy," said Switzerland sadly.

Surprised, Liechtenstein tugged at her braids, only to find that her hair had come loose. "Oh," she said. "I don't mind."

Switzerland _hmm_ ed, unconvinced. "We'll worry about it later."

For then, they held on for dear life.

* * *

Also traveling in a general eastward direction at the moment was Britain—except he wasn't headed to JFK. His plane that morning had touched base instead at LaGuardia Airport; this made him feel special compared to a certain muddle of others. It also made him feel lonely, though he was unaware that _his_ personified rear end wasn't the _only_ personified rear end uncomfortable on the hard plastic seats of the F line train. He fancied his ride would be shorter, anyhow—but they would all find out soon, wouldn't they.

He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and stuck in some earbuds to drown out all the worried talk about snow. England had risen from the dead at two o'clock that morning—in his _own_ time zone—and had since come to hard terms with his new zombie life. France had dropped his croissant seeing the British nation enter the conference; England had retorted, "Do I really look so stunning?", France had thrown a white gloved hand over his face as if to protect his own perfectly pressed _ensemble_ from a horrid beast, and that had been the end of that conversation. Now, _Fairytale of New York_ was playing, and England was smirking sadly to himself in a caffeine haze. In his deliriousness, he allowed himself to turn the volume up one level past what was safe for his already old, impaired hearing.

It was due to that action that he missed the arrival of some familiars onto the train as they breezed through a station in Astoria. "I told you this way was cheapest," said Netherlands, holding his siblings' hands as they climbed onto the train, even though there was no step.

"We will have to take a bus to go the rest of the way, though," noted Belgium, still clutching her manicure kit to herself protectively in case a wild Poland would jump out from behind the advertisement poster for the new iPhone to steal it. "Oh, look! Taiwan and Seychelles! Can we sit by you?"

As the girls, sitting on the other side of the car from Britain, looked up at her, Luxembourg looked at his brother. "Don't worry about the bus, Ned. I can pay! I will pay!"

Netherlands' scarf fluttered in the subterranean transit wind. "No; please, allow me. I know how to do the bargaining." He held onto a yellow pole. "Drivers do anything if you slip them three dollars."

Luxembourg nodded slowly. "That sounds fake but okay." He took a seat.

England, meanwhile, was worrying if he would have enough time to work on his Christmas pudding when he got back. _If_ he got back; no matter how playful was he with auditory danger, the nervous ambiance of the subway slipped through his earbuds—clips and phrases like "' _uge_ storm," "biggest blizzard since the last one," and "is that guy passed out or somethin'?" He opened his eyes when the song ended and one of the voices became familiar to him.

"So, like, he _didn't_ break the train after all?" Hong Kong sounded genuinely confused.

"No… I…" China looked unsure, glancing suspiciously throughout the car, which prompted South Korea to do so, as well. "Whatever. He's not here. I just want to get home."

"Don't we all," mumbled Japan, following after his relatives with hunched shoulders. Snow covered all of them, and they looked a bit downtrodden, as if they had just been humiliated on a gameshow. England awkwardly avoided eye contact. With a blast of cold, smelly air, the subway's doors slid shut, and the train began to move again.

Taiwan and Seychelles offered up more empty seats across from them. The whole group began talking, and once again Britain did his best to politely drown them out lest he appear to eavesdrop. He turned to the other side, but then noticed Netherlands and Luxembourg—and Belgium, who stood almost directly across from him! Great. Now England felt bad. He told himself none of this would matter, because he would be home soon for a long break. Oh God—what if he had to share a _plane_ with them? The thought troubled him in many ways. He hunched further into his coat and tried to appear inconspicuous.

So then, of course, his phone began to ring. _Loudly_.

England jumped, and the device fell out of his hands onto the floor, where it set about violently vibrating like a restaurant pager. He fell to his knees in haste to pick it up. Everyone stared at him at first, and then looked away, trying not to embarrass him, which made him feel even more embarrassed. Frustratedly, he cupped the phone to his ear and swiped to answer it, hissing out a "Hello?"

America's voice blared through the bad signal. "Yo, Britain! That you?"

He made eye contact with Japan, who looked away first. Through gritted teeth: "Yes."

"'Kay, great. Listen. There's a problem."

He huffed and crossed his arms. "There certainly seem to be a lot of problems, America." No sarcasm there.

"Uh...yeah. That's about right. Except this one's urgent. Wherever you are right now—"

England allowed himself a small outburst. "I'm on the bloody Tube! No, I meant subway! Metro, whatever you call it! H-However urgent your problem is, it better not interfere with my plans any more than it already has!"

The other end went silent for a second, in which England had a small heart attack. Then America's voice came back clearer, and, if it wasn't his imagination, even softer. "About your plans...they're cancelled. The planes are cancelled, I mean. It's the weather. All of you guys are stuck here."

" _What_?" England had a larger heart attack. _His pudding!_ "But, but it's Christ—"

"—mas Eve, I know. But I'm working on it, see?" Britain could only see his own stained reflection in the stained subway windows, and the darkened tunnel beyond. "I think I can persuade my government for a flight," America continued. "Are there any other guys with you?"

Britain looked around and for the first time contemplated the unlikely circumstance of so many nations ending up in the same subway car on the same line. He had yet to find out if it was luck or not. "...Yes."

"Awesome. Can you and them all come to Terminal 1 at JFK? If this plan works, we'll all need to be together." A burst of static.

The English nation ground his teeth some more. He considered complaining that he hadn't been heading that way, but thought better of it. He also wondered if it would be quicker to just wait out the delay at LaGuardia rather than bother with hit-or-miss scheduling, risky takeoff weather, and— _shudder_ —governments. "How good are the chances of this plan working, exactly?"

An empty delay. Hesitation. "...Uh, what was that? I think you're cutting out, man."

"Oh, don't play that game with me, you child!" Britain made eye contact with Seychelles this time. She frowned.

"No, really!" America's voice became substantially more garbled. "I—have—to— _go_. _Just—bring—everyone—to—the—airpor—_ " The call ended.

Britain huffed and reluctantly slipped his phone back into his pocket, not a moment before all the lights along the train abruptly flickered out.

People began to mutter. China's groan floated above. Startled, England reached out and grabbed onto a metal standing pole (accidentally placing his hand atop Netherlands's at first), but a disastrous crash did not come. The train continued at the same speed as before. Soon, the lights came back on.

A scruffy, apologetic voice began to echo through the speakers, denouncing the mere "technical difficulty," but Britain had stopped listening, filled with a new sense of urgency. Maybe it was better he got to a safer place in this storm. It would still take a while to get to JFK, but if on the off-chance that America's plan _did_ work, he wouldn't want to be the only one left behind in this mess like a fool. Which meant it was time to tell the others.

He realized too late that, _also_ on the off-chance that America's plan did work, he would still be stuck on a plane with a murder of anxious, caffeine-loaded countries.

* * *

 **Merry Christmas, happy Christmas, and happy holidays to everyone!**


End file.
